


don't you drink their poison

by Damkianna



Category: Boys Grammar (Short Film 2005)
Genre: Antagonism, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bad Decisions, Extra Treat, Guilt, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Post-Canon, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: It had been three weeks since Gareth had spoken to Nick.Gareth's dad hadn't changed his mind. Gareth was back at school with the rest of them.Nick had gone round the day after with his jaw a mess, his nose swollen and one of his lips split, from where Gareth had hit him over and over. He hadn't said who'd done it; that wasn't the way to go about it. He'd just looked away, mumbled vague halfhearted things about how it wasn't anybody's business anyhow, and by the end of the day the word had been going round everywhere that it had been Gareth, getting a bit of his own back.
Relationships: Gareth/Nick (Boys Grammar)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	don't you drink their poison

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> All my apologies for the lateness of this treat, Sandrine; please enjoy this pile of trust issues, messy feelings, both angry confrontations AND coming to certain quiet understandings, and kissing, which I can only hope is somewhere close to what you were looking for with your request. Happy RMSE! :D
> 
> Title adapted from Vienna Teng's "Gravity".

It had been three weeks since Gareth had spoken to Nick.

Gareth's dad hadn't changed his mind. Gareth was back at school with the rest of them.

Nick had gone round the day after with his jaw a mess, his nose swollen and one of his lips split, from where Gareth had hit him over and over. He hadn't said who'd done it; that wasn't the way to go about it. He'd just looked away, mumbled vague halfhearted things about how it wasn't anybody's business anyhow, and by the end of the day the word had been going round everywhere that it had been Gareth, getting a bit of his own back. He'd felt something tight and twisted-up, something that was almost an awful sort of pride, seeing the way the boys had started sneaking awed little glances at Gareth after. _That's right_ , he'd wanted to say. _He took it and it made him stronger, and he won't be messed about with anymore._

But he hadn't said it, of course. He couldn't have.

He'd gone over it again and again in his head, while his face healed up. It had happened the way it had had to; he'd decided that much easily. Gareth had needed to be taught a lesson, hadn't he? Someone had had to do it. Someone had had to make him understand he couldn't be the way he was, couldn't be so obvious about it. Nick hadn't—Nick hadn't quite meant for it to be so—but once it had got started, he couldn't have stopped it, could he? It would have happened sooner or later, with Gareth, and someone had had to; it might as well have been Nick.

Because _Nick_ understood, all right. Nick had learned that lesson years ago. Honestly, it was a wonder Gareth had gone on as long as he had, the way that he had, without learning it too.

Nick had done him a favor, really, if you thought about it.

Anyway, the point was—nobody messed about with Gareth, not anymore. They'd all seen what he'd done to Nick's face. So things should be better now. Things should be all right.

But it had been three weeks since Gareth had said a word to Nick, or even looked at him.

That wasn't what Nick had wanted. He'd just meant to teach Gareth a lesson, that was all.

It was obvious he'd better do something about it.

He waited until they were in the locker room together. Alone, just them, all the other boys already gone. Gareth had wanted to quit swimming, too, but his dad hadn't let him do that either; so instead Gareth was always the very last one out of the pool, and he only came in the locker room once everybody else had left.

He didn't shower anymore, either. Just toweled himself off quick and rough, let the chlorine dry on him, and threw his clothes on.

He meant to do the same thing today. Nick could tell that just by the way he came in, shoulders hunched, eyes down, quick and furtive like he didn't want to be seen, didn't want to be caught.

He stopped short when he saw Nick. He'd thought there was no one in here anymore, Nick knew; Nick had let the door bang shut after the rest of them and then hadn't moved, hadn't touched anything, hadn't so much as taken a step. Gareth wouldn't have come in here if he'd heard someone still moving about.

Nick glanced at him, and then away, as if he hadn't hung round waiting ten minutes just for this. "Almost thought you'd already left, Gary," he said, and then reached into his locker as if he were digging around for his shirt, though he could see exactly where it was.

He said it lightly, easily. He meant it to be conversational. He meant to set an example. It was over. It didn't have to keep on being a big deal. It was done, and they could set it aside now and go on, if Gareth would only be reasonable about it.

Gareth didn't speak.

Nick looked over his shoulder. Gareth was staring at him, pale, mouth tense, jaw set.

Nick felt a shiver of unease go up his spine, a cold roiling feeling he'd been trying to make go away strengthening in his stomach.

Someone had had to do it, he reminded himself. It might as well have been him. It was over now. It would be over now, if only Gareth would let it go.

"Got any spare towels over there?" he made himself say. "Mine got soaked—"

He had an instant's warning in the way Gareth's lip curled, the sudden vicious flash of fury across his face. Just like that night, just the way he'd looked the moment before he'd knocked Nick to the floor and begun to hit him.

And then, in the space of a breath, Gareth had crossed the room, caught Nick by his bare shoulders and shoved him against the lockers. He hadn't let Nick turn round; Nick tried to do it now, but Gareth braced a forearm across his back, the blades of his shoulders, and leaned into it hard, and Nick had no leverage.

"Gareth," he said, not half as steady as he'd meant it to be. His neck was twinging, twisted where he was pressed to the lockers, cheek to the cold metal of them.

"Don't," Gareth gritted in his ear. "Don't you say a word to me. You—" Gareth relented, but only enough to give him the room to shove Nick again when Nick tried to take advantage of it, knocking Nick's head into the upper locker with a muted clang.

"Gareth—"

" _Don't_ ," Gareth cried.

Nick had raised his hands, bracing his palms against the lockers. Gareth covered one of them and pinned it there, digging into Nick's spread fingers with his nails, punishing, white-knuckled. With the other, he pushed with the heel of his hand into the bare small of Nick's back, so Nick's hips were pinned too.

"Something you're looking for, is there," Gareth spat, and Nick jerked, abruptly aware that he was trapped, that they were alone; he felt cold all over, not just where his damp skin was sticking to the metal in front of him, and his stomach was trembling, and he thought dimly that he was going to be sick. "Hanging about in here, waiting for me. Asking for it, aren't you?"

Nick squirmed, helpless, panicked. He couldn't breathe. His eyes stung.

Gareth's hand caught the waist of his trousers.

"Not even fastened," Gareth said, in a harsh mocking tone. "Too easy. You really are desperate for it. I guess I should've known." He tugged, hard—the open fly was crushed against Nick's hips, caught his skin and scraped in stinging lines, and then it was down to his thighs and Gareth was turning his hand, grasping roughly at Nick's arse through his black briefs.

It should've been a relief that he hadn't reached inside them. It wasn't. It only made Nick more aware that he could—that he was probably going to, and that Nick couldn't stop him. Nick tensed, hard, sucking in a sharp ragged breath; and Gareth must've heard it, felt it, because he laughed in Nick's ear, low and bitter and gloating.

"Get _off_ ," Nick said, but it didn't come out like the demand he'd intended it to be. It came out thin and hoarse, pleading.

"That why you did it?" Gareth murmured to him. "To get off on it? You _liked_ it, didn't you, making me—" He stopped. His voice had cracked. "Making me take it—"

"Gareth," but that was a mistake, Nick knew it as soon as it left his mouth. Gareth made a sharp furious noise between his teeth and jerked Nick's briefs out of his way, too—shoved his fingers, blunt hard pressure, down the crack of Nick's arse, and Nick cried out and twisted away from it, shaking, heart pounding, except there was nowhere to go.

"Your turn," Gareth grated out. "Your turn. Take it. Take it like a man—isn't that what you said? I'm just making you _stronger_ , Nick. Isn't that right?"

Nick squeezed his eyes shut.

Gareth was right. He had to be. That was how this worked, and always had. Nick swallowed bile, and breathed, and made himself still. He should have expected this, and he knew how to survive it. He'd done it before.

He was a man.

He didn't struggle anymore. Gareth held him there, and Nick pressed his cheek to the cold locker and dug his teeth into his lip, trembling. Gareth shoved two fingertips into him, and he shuddered and tasted blood and made himself bear it.

And then Gareth breathed out, a long shaking exhalation against the nape of his neck, and said dazedly, "Oh, god. Oh, _god_ —"

He pulled his hand away—both his hands. He was—he let go.

Why was he letting go?

Nick didn't move. He pressed himself against the lockers harder, swallowing, and waited. Surely that wasn't all. That couldn't be all.

"Oh, god," Gareth said again, and Nick heard him stumble back and _gag_ , retching air. That didn't make any sense.

He licked at his split lip, absent, and blinked a few times. His eyes were hot, and wet, but that was all. He felt strange, cool, sort of far off from himself. He didn't understand what was happening.

He pushed himself away from the lockers, hands unsteady, and looked round.

Gareth was crying.

Nick stared at him, and lurched an uncertain half-step toward him. What was he doing? That wasn't how this was supposed to go. Didn't he know that? Hadn't—

Hadn't Nick taught him so?

Nick didn't know what to do. The other thing had been—something that happened. Boys, men, did that to each other. Men hurt each other. They didn't _cry_. They didn't cry at all, and they definitely didn't cry the way Gareth cried: mouth open, face red, eyes wet and streaming, hoarse wrenching sobs that sounded like they hurt.

Nick reached for him. He didn't know why he was doing it; he had some vague half-formed idea of pulling Gareth up, making him get on with it.

But it was just like on the floor of Gareth's dining room. He hadn't known what he was doing then, either. He'd expected Gareth to keep on hitting him. Gareth had fallen into him instead, had fallen into his chest and wept, and Nick had had no idea what to do except hold on and wait till he was finished, in case he wanted to hit Nick again when he was done.

Nick's hands had shaken, then. He hadn't been able to make them stop.

They were shaking now, too.

"Gareth," he said hoarsely.

Gareth turned, unseeing, clumsy, and reached for him—found his shoulder and leaned into it, turning his face in close so Nick couldn't see it anymore. "Why? Why'd you have to do that to me? Why'd you—"

The word broke as he sobbed aloud through the middle of it, and god, it was awful; it was so much worse than if he'd just kept on going and finished what he'd started. Nick wanted to shove him away, wanted to cover his ears and walk out without looking back, except he couldn't move, couldn't figure out how to make his body listen to him. He felt colder than he had when he was pushed up against the lockers; he thought he might retch, too.

Gareth sobbed again, and then caught his breath and quieted a bit.

"There's something wrong with me," Gareth whispered. "There must be. And you could tell, couldn't you? You were—you were right. You must have known you were right." He straightened up a little, not hiding his face anymore but wiping at it, looking at Nick with those wet reddened eyes, and Nick could hardly stand it. "I dream about it. I can't stop dreaming about it. And half the time it's just as bad as while it was happening. But half the time it's—" He stopped, throat working, and then an odd look passed over his face, weary and defiant at once. "You were right," he said again, steadier. "I did wish it was your cock, just like you said. I used to, and I still do. I can't make it go away. Sometimes I want to peel my own skin off for it, but it's true."

Nick couldn't listen to this. He couldn't hear this. He flinched away, biting at his mouth; suddenly his legs, his hands, were under his control again, but he couldn't get them where he wanted them quick enough to be up off the floor before Gareth had got him by the shoulder, the nape of the neck.

"Don't _touch_ me," Nick spat at him, trembling, heart pounding.

But Gareth didn't let him go. He didn't look pleased, either, the way Nick might have expected him to, even though he must have realized he'd just figured out exactly what to do to make Nick cower from him after all. He was staring at Nick with searching eyes, and his face was still red from crying but it didn't matter; he seemed suddenly calm, calm and sure.

"Nick," he said quietly.

And then he held Nick there and touched his mouth to Nick's.

Nick twisted out from under it, of course. He made a sharp noise in his throat that he hoped dimly sounded properly disgusted, and he turned his face away and tried to shake off Gareth's hands.

What was he doing? What did he think he was doing? He clearly hadn't learned anything at all, Nick thought, with distant blistering anger.

He could hit Nick. He could hurt Nick. If he did that, and anybody else came in, they'd leave him to it—or even help him do it, the way they'd helped Nick do it to him. But not _this_. This was unthinkable.

"Nick," Gareth said.

Nick reached up blindly to grab for Gareth's hands, to pull them off himself, and only managed to close his fingers weakly around Gareth's wrists. "No," he said wildly. "No, don't. You can't. Don't—"

Gareth was still looking at him, in that steady searching way he couldn't bear. He was close. He was too close. Nick had to get away from him.

"Nick," he said again, and didn't let go.

Nick shook, and swallowed hard, and tried once more to pull away. But he felt strange and weak; he couldn't do it.

Gareth brought one of his hands up, brushed the side of Nick's throat and then touched his face, his jaw. He touched Nick's mouth with his thumb, and Nick flinched again but Gareth just followed the motion and hung on, and then pressed the tip of his thumb between Nick's lips.

"Wish it was my cock, don't you," he said, very softly.

Nick squeezed his eyes shut, tears burning at the corners of them, and went hot and then cold and then hot again. God. Oh, god. Maybe all this meant was that Gareth was cleverer than he was: getting his own back, all right, and in the most excruciating way he could possibly have done it, the cruelest way anyone had ever hurt Nick in his life.

"It was your fucking fault, Gary," he managed to say, as venomous as he could make it. "It was your fucking fault—I had to. I _had_ to—"

_I had to. I was looking at you too long, I was watching you too much; they were going to notice. They were going to notice, if I didn't—if I didn't figure something out, if I didn't make sure—_

He couldn't say that. His face was red, he could feel it. He was trembling. He couldn't breathe.

Gareth hadn't moved his hand. He said, on an indrawn breath, soft and sick, "Jesus, Nick." Like he was sorry; like _he_ felt sorry for _Nick_.

"Get off me," Nick gasped. "Get the fuck away from me—"

Gareth pressed in closer, unmerciful, and kissed him again. Kissed him again, and again, harder, deeper, and Nick sobbed against his mouth and shuddered, tried to jerk away but Gareth had worked his fingers into Nick's hair and gripped it tight, and wouldn't let him.

It felt like an hour before Gareth relented, and was done with him. He kept touching Nick's face even after he'd moved his mouth away; and then he whispered against Nick's cheek, like it was a secret, "I won't forgive you."

"I know you won't," Nick heard himself say.

"Not—yet," Gareth said.

Nick blinked his eyes open and stared at him.

Gareth was looking at him, level, thoughtful, the barest furrow in his brow. He looked—he was flushed, and his mouth was red and wet but not from crying, not anymore. He'd done that to it kissing Nick, Nick thought, and his stomach lurched, a shiver passing over his skin.

"I won't tell anyone," he added, quiet and awkward, and then he bit his lip, and stood up, and walked away.

Nick sat unmoving, and breathed.

But he didn't hear the door.

And then suddenly Gareth was back in front of him again, and he was—he was holding out Nick's shirt. "Here," he said.

Nick took it from him, and fumbled it on. The buttons felt small and slippery under his fingertips, he couldn't hold them; Gareth made a little huffing noise and pushed his hands out of the way, and caught a button in one hand and the buttonhole band in the other, and then stopped and looked at Nick with wide uncertain eyes.

Nick looked back, pulse rushing in his ears.

Gareth buttoned him up, one button at a time. He paused when he got to Nick's collar, met Nick's eyes again and then deliberately slid two fingers between the top two buttons, and brushed his fingertips in a long steady stroke along Nick's collarbone.

Nick shuddered, and let his eyes fall shut, and didn't stop him.

"We're late," Gareth murmured. "We've got to go."

"Yeah," Nick croaked.

Gareth drew his hand away, and looked at Nick a little longer, and then turned round and left the locker room.

Nick closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against a locker, and breathed.

Gareth had broken him open, cracked him clean apart and seen everything nobody was ever supposed to know. He should have felt ruined by it. He should have felt weaker.

But he didn't. He didn't.

He felt stronger. He felt like Gareth had found something festering deep in him and cut it open, drawn it from him. He didn't know what, and he didn't know why, and he didn't know what it meant.

Not—yet.


End file.
